


Call Me By Name

by QueSeraAwesome



Series: Soulmate AUs [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Season 11 Spoilers, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It never occurred to Tucker that "Wash" wasn't, in fact, Agent Washington's real name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tucker has long accepted that he’s probably not going to find his soul mate.

Not everybody managed to find their soulmate, after all. Humans aren’t confined to Earth anymore. Your soul mate might not be on the same planet. Hell, they might not even be in the same galaxy, and the old taboo of sleeping with or marrying somebody who’s name isn’t on your wrist died a long time ago.

And the signs aren’t looking too good for him. He’s a grown ass adult, he spends most of his time with the same 6-12 people, and when he isn’t with them, he’s usually with aliens. Alien’s aren’t named “David” and that’s the name on his wrist. He also knows most of the first names of everyone from Blood Gulch, and he’s already decided that if Sarge’s first name ends up being David, and if he’s got “Lavernius” on his wrist in matching yellow ink, he’s going to fall on his fucking sword. No, it’s probably for the best, anyway. He heard Carolina telling Wash once that the Director had “Allison” on his wrist, and look how that turned out. No, he’s good.

The ship crashed. Church left (again). Wash was a dick. Then he wasn’t as much of a dick. Then Locus attacked. Then he was gone. Tucker’s surprised by how much that hurts.

It’s like a phantom pain somewhere. Somewhere he can’t really explain. He’s in charge of a bunch of fucking noobs, (and since when was he not a fucking noob? When exactly was it when he started thinking about himself as a person with skills, instead of just acting like he did? He doesn’t remember but he thinks it was probably under the sand) and they’re looking at him the way he think’s they probably should look at Wash instead.

Except Wash isn’t here. Tucker is.

He runs drills.

Every day is leg day. He trains himself just as hard as he trains them. That’s probably the only reason they don’t find him in the night and kill him. He says things that he thinks Wash would say. He says things that he’d wanted Wash to say. (He misses Wash.) He runs more drills. He trains harder. He tries to be a good officer. A good captain. He’s had a lot of captains. Flowers. Chuch (But not really. Asshole just acted like a captain. And then fucking disappeared). Wash. He tries to take the best of each of them (some of them had more good bits than others) and be that.

Some of his men bitch that he trains them too hard. He transfers them to Grif’s squad. There’s a line of people requesting to join his, though, so it evens out. Kimball calls him driven.

He learns to be a pretty good leader. They all do. Grif’s squad ends up being decent at stealth and infiltration. Tucker’s guys are ace on the front lines. The Dick Squad, as they’ve taken to calling themselves, are one of the fiercest, scariest groups around, and even Caboose’s guys get pretty good at coming up with codes and creative problem solving (probably from having to translate Caboose). He learns to not call Lady Bones “sweetheart” if he wants any painkillers the next time he sprains something. Simmons learns how to talk to girls. The food guys to keep all bacon under lock, key, and armed guard at all times. His squad learns not to mention Wash on “bad days.”

“You sure you don’t have ‘Wash’ written on your wrist?” Grif jokes.

Caboose, for all his strength, can barely hold him back from decking him. Kimball breaks it up. Grif learns to shut his fucking mouth.

When they finally get Wash back, Tucker is in the assault team. No one tried to argue about it. They’re not that fucking dumb. By sheer luck, he’s the one who finds the bunker they’re keeping him in (he can hear the shouts of joy from Simmons a hundred feet east from where they just found Sarge). Wash isn’t conscious when he finds him. He’s slumped, leaning against the wall, wrists bound, chained to the wall like some kind of animal. They’ve taken his helmet, and all the armor off his right arm. It looks like he fought them over it, too. There’s a crumpled rag in the corner, and Tucker can catch a whiff of knock-out gas from here.

“Wash,” he says. He knows he can’t hear him, but he’s got to say it anyway.“I came to get you, you dumbfuck.”

He sets to work on getting the chains loose. He could use his sword, but he worries at how close the metal lies to Wash’s skin. It is a little more complicated than “swish, swish, stab,” as it turns out.

He sees it out of the corner of his eye, the faint lines against his wrist— _rnius_.

The sounds of the battle outside fade away. He gets the final chain off, gets the rope around his wrists free, and, feeling slightly guilty (this is technically an invasion of privacy) he turns Wash’s wrist to get a better look. _Lavernius._ In yellow ink, even. It’s like being punched in the gut.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he says, slinging an arm under his shoulders

(Lady Bones told him that if he found him unconscious, that the safest way to transport him would be a bridal carry, in case of concussion. She told him to be careful with his head. She’d seemed serious, but he hadn’t been 100% sure she wasn’t fucking with him).

“You fucking cockbite.”

 _I hope not_ , a rogue section of his brain says. _Especially if_ —

Shut up. There’s more than one Lavernius in the universe.

“Get his helmet, and the rest of his armor,” he orders one of his squaddies as he exits the bunker.

His guys exchange glances but do as they’re told. No one engages him on his way out of the battleground.

No one wants to be the one to risk his wrath by making him put Wash down to draw his sword.

*

Lady Bones steals all the former captives the second they get back.

“This is bullshit!” Tucker yells.

Simmons has a death grip on Sarge’s gurney.

“These men have been held captive by our enemies for months,” Lady Bones snaps back. “They have to be medically evaluated.”

“But, Booones—“ Simmons whines.

“No. These men could be sick. Injured. Who knows what. _I_ am going to make sure they receive medical treatment for whatever happened to them. _You’re_ going to go sit in the waiting room until I agree they’re well enough to see you.”

Tucker holds his ground, but Simmons retreats, collapsing into a chair. Grif goes and puts an arm around him, saying something to him too softly for the others to hear.

“Can’t I just—“ Tucker starts.

“ _Sit. Down. Child_.”

Caboose starts sniffling loudly, his hands clutching the sides of his helmet in distress and just like that Bones softens.

“I’ll bring them back, Captain Caboose,” she says. “They’re not going anywhere.”

The med bay doors close behind her. Tucker kicks the wall.

*

Tucker’s there when he wakes up. He hasn’t been anywhere else. He’s seen Carolina (who decided to show the fuck back up again) watching him from the hallway a couple times with a sad smile on her face.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Lady Bones says. “How are you feeling, Agent Washington?”

“Better,” Wash says, sitting up. “Where ever it is I am?”

“You’re with the Rebel Alliance, idiot,” Tucker interjects, crossing his arms. “We saved your stupid ass.”

Wash looks at Tucker like he’s surprised he’s there.

“You came back for me,” he says.

“I need you to look into this light,” Bones interjects. “Follow my finger with your eyes, not your head. Are you feeling any pain?”

“A little bit bruised,” Wash says, following her orders.

“Sounds about right. I’m going to keep you under observation for twenty four hours just in case. You’re on ten hours of sleep a night and 1.5 rations for the near future, though. And don’t strain yourself, you’re pretty banged up, a little malnourished. Other than that, you’re going to be fine.” Bones glances at Tucker. “I’ll leave you two to catch up. Welcome to the New Republic, Agent Washington.”

“Thanks.”

Bones closes the door behind her.

“Why didn’t you fucking say anything?” Tucker asks.

“About what?” Wash asks. “Tucker, I haven’t seen you in months. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“About _this_ , asshole,” Tucker says, leaning forward and jabbing at his wrist.

He’s still out of armor, so the yellow Lavernius is clearly visible, if you’re looking for it.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yeah. Oh.” Tucker says. “When were you gonna tell me you had my first name on your wrist? And don’t even try that ‘I didn’t know it was your name’ crap, because you’ve used it before.”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t sure—“

“Wasn’t sure it was me? You know what you’re supposed to do in that situation?” Tucker yells. “You’re supposed to fucking _ask_. ‘Hey, man, I know this is awkward, but what’s the name on your wrist, because I think it might be mine?’ ‘Hey, Tucker, is there any chance your wrist says your soulmate’s name is fucking ‘David’ in yellow fucking ink because guess what?”

“Tucker—“

“No! I didn’t even fucking know your name was David before that! How’s that for thinking we were fucking friends? It never even occurred to me that you’re name wasn’t Wash. I didn’t think I’d ever find my soulmate and when I do it turns out he’s been hiding shit and lying to me, in addition to being a complete assclown and sacrificing himself like some big dumb hero and leaving me alone again—“

“Excuse me for caring about your life,” Wash retorts.

“Don’t change the fucking subject,” Tucker snaps. “You lied to me, Wash.”

“I didn’t lie,” Wash protests. “…I just didn’t give you all the information.”

“Same goddamn thing. Now I wanna know why.”

Tucker crosses his arms and leans back, staring at his accusatorily. It is an unsaid fact that he plans to wait, probably indefinitely, until he gets a satisfactory answer. Wash sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He suddenly misses his armor, his skin hot and too exposed.

“I didn’t—“ Wash starts. “I didn’t think you’d want…”

He ducks his head, a pink flush starting to spread down his neck.

“What, _you_?” Tucker asks. “You didn’t think I’d want _you_?”

“Oh, come on, Tucker! You talk about women all the time. You talk about having sex with women all the time. I had absolutely no basis to believe that you’d have a man’s name on your hand, let alone my name!”

“Them’s the breaks when your bisexual with the fucking soulmate names thing, asshole,” Tucker snaps. “If I’m going to end up with a guy, I’m gonna at least enjoy women while I can before I meet my ball and chain.”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Wash snaps. “If having a soulmate’s such a fucking inconvenience, maybe you ought to just forget you even have one.”

“What, like you did?” Tucker retorts.

“Hey, assholes,” Grif says, poking his head in the doors. “You think you can keep your fucking lovers’ quarrel down to a dull roar? Donut’s trying to sleep, you fuckwits.”

“Get the fuck out, Grif,” Tucker snaps.

“It’s too goddamn early for you two to start fighting again,” Griff snarks. “Jesus Christ, you’ve been soulmates for ten fucking minutes. Make out, enjoy the afterglow. You can start screaming at each other tomorrow.”

The door slams shut behind him. Ten seconds later it opens again.

“And Wash? Tucker was a fucking nightmare while you were gone. He pined like a fucking rabid werewolf. And Tucker? Wash used to stare at your ass while he made you run drills. We could see it from across the canyon. So don’t fucking think either of you are backing out on this, because I’m sick of watching you two dance around each other like a couple of bitches.”

The door slams shut again.

“NICE WORDS FOR SOMEONE WHO STILL HASN’T FUCKED SIMMONS!” Tucker yells.

“SHOWS HOW MUCH YOU KNOW!” Griff screams back.

That silence, right there? It’s oppressive. It’s beating the Federal Government of Chorus in a fight over who’s the biggest oppressive dickwad. Neither of them look at each other.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Tucker stands. “I’m going to go get drunk.”

The door slams again.

Wash looks at his hands. He starts to count the freckles on his fingers. There’s who-knows-what stuck underneath his fingernails. Come to think of that he feels filthy and disgusting all over. He could really use a shower.

And Everything suddenly hurts a lot more than it did when he woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is now three chapters, because the boys needed a lot more time to talk than anticipated.

Lady Bones, as everyone calls her, clears him to leave the next day.

“Okay,” Wash says. “So…what do I do now?”

“Do?” Lady Bones asks. “You do nothing. I cleared you to leave, I didn’t clear you to _do_ things. You don’t get an assignment for at least a week, and I’ll personally skin anyone caught giving you one. You need to take some time to let yourself recover.”

“…Can I at least work out? Do drills?” Wash asks.

Lady Bones stares at him. It reminds me of the way Connie used to look at him sometimes when she thought we was being completely moronic, and that twinges more than he expected it to.

“I tell you what,” she says finally. “I’ll clear you for physical activity on one condition— you only get to do whatever exercise you can get Captain Grif to do with you.”

“….You’ve really got to know them well in a short time, haven’t you?” Wash asks.

Lady Bones snorts.

“I’m a doctor. Not an idiot.”

*

The New Republic camp is….bedraggled. Noisy. Shoddy. Desperate. Reckless. Energetic. Green. Hopeful.

It’s basically everything Project Freelancer wasn’t.

Wash stands at the edge of the empty main training field and takes a deep breath. Everything’s changed. Again. That’s the one thing he can count on. Things change.

He glances down at his wrist. Wonders how many more things will change.

A couple of the passing soldiers send him curious glances, but no one approaches. Occasionally he can hear whispers following him, and he does his best not to feel self-conscious about that. These people want him here (probably). They went through a lot of trouble to get him here. He wonders what the Reds and Blues told them about him. Wash continues his stroll through camp, getting a better look at how things are run, getting a feel for this new place. Even though Locus is still at large and the Federal Army is still a huge threat, the mood around camp is triumphant. They accomplished something. They succeeded. Wash gets the feeling that doesn’t always happen around here. The number of people gets higher the closer he gets to where Lady Bones told him the mess was. He’s starting to think about lunch when—

“AGENT WASHINGTON!”

He only barely sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye before he’s hit. He has just enough time to think _fuck, just when things were getting not so bad_ before he’s lifted off his feet and being…spun?

There are arms around his trunk lifting him up and the world spins dizzyingly around him, but when he looks down at his attacker he’s greeted by the sight of a familiar helmet.

“Caboose!”

“Agent Washington!” Caboose yells, fully ecstatic. “Agent Washington, Agent Washington, Agent Washington!”

Wash can’t help it. He laughs. It feels…good. Better than good.

“Caboose! It’s good to see you, buddy!”

“Agent Washington!!”

He puts his hands on Caboose’s shoulders for balance, as they make a final spin. He doesn’t really trust Caboose not to accidentally tip them over, but he’s surprisingly strong.

“Agent Washington!” Caboose yells. “You’re alive! And you’re here! Now Everything’s going to be good forever!”

Wash swallows around the lump in his throat and glances around. They’re kinda making a scene, but he can only find it in him to care a little. Very few of the surrounding soldiers are outright staring, but he can see a lot of covered smiles. Caboose is very clearly liked around here. And he still hasn’t put him down.

“The Lady Doctor said you were tired but okay!” Caboose continues. “She said that if we broke you before you got a chance to get better that she would break us! But I don’t think she meant it because she is a nice lady! Though she may stop giving me suckers for being good!”

“Look, buddy, do you think you can put me down?”

Caboose drops him promptly and Wash only barely gets his feet under him before he hits the ground, stumbling a little and leaning on Caboose for balance.

“I’m glad you are here, Agent Washington,” Caboose says seriously.

“I know, buddy,” Wash says. “Me too.”

Wash looks up and like magnetism, his eyes catch Tucker’s. He didn’t even know he was there. He’s leaning against the side of the mess, one foot braced against the wall. His body language is loose and easy, a thoughtful tilt to his helmet. He stiffens when he notices Wash looking at him. Stalks around the corner and disappears. A tightness grows in Wash’s lungs.

“Would you like to eat lunch together, Agent Washington?” Caboose asks. “It can be the first new meeting of the buddy club.”

“I’d like that,” Wash says, breaking his gaze from the corner Tucker disappeared to. “And you know you can just call me Wash, right Caboose?”

“Oh, I know,” Caboose says. He takes his hand and starts dragging him into the mess. “I just like Agent Washington better right now because it fills more space.”

*

They see the Reds in the mess and wave. For a minute Wash really wants to go catch up with Sarge, he hasn’t seen him since they decided to split up the captives and he’s concerned by the set of crutches leaning against the table he’s sitting at. But for the moment the older man looks content, listening to Grif and Simmons energetically telling him a story, so he decides to let him be for now. Caboose babbles happily at him throughout lunch so he doesn’t have to say much. He can just take it in.

“They got everybody out, right?” He asks suddenly, realizing. “It wasn’t just—“

“Oh, yeah, we got you back and Sarge back and Donut back and we found Doc in the box!” Caboose says.

“That’s good,” Wash says. He can feel his heart rate going back down. “That’s really good.”

*

He reunites with everyone piecemeal. They don’t all seem to have time to congregate and do it all together. Part of him is sad about that. Most of him is just proud of them. He ignores the flicker of unease in his stomach. They all seem happy, purposeful. Relieved. Wash decides to be those things as well.

So much has changed since the shipwreck. These people have changed, even as they’re still wholeheartedly themselves.. He’s still cataloging the differences between the Before and Now, figuring out where he fits (he fits, he does, there’s still space for him here).

Donut is a perfect example. As far as Wash knows, Donut could have been surgically attached to Doc since the last time he’s seen him, for how close they keep to each other. They go everywhere fingers entwined, never farther than the lengths of their arms away from each other. Most often, they’re tucked into each other’s sides. Wash isn’t quite sure how they walk, except that they seem to fit perfectly into the crook of each other’s shoulders, always in step with each other’s footsteps. They’re like a little pink and purple beacon of sappy romance wherever they go. It’s disgusting.

It’s not. If he’s really honest with himself about the emotion rolling in his gut when he sees them together, it’s really, really not.

*

No one can prove he’s avoiding Tucker. No one can prove Tucker’s avoiding him, either. That’s the thing about two people avoiding each other—no one can definitively prove which of their faults it actually is.

“That’s bullshit,” Grif says. “You’re avoiding him.”

“No I’m not,” Wash says. “He’s avoiding me.”

“Oh, he’s totally avoiding you,” Felix adds, twirling a knife around his finger. Wash glances at it hungrily. It’s been a long time since he got to practice his knife skills. “You’re just avoiding him too.”

“You can’t prove that.”

Grif and Felix exchange knowing looks. Wash throws up his hands and walks away.

“I’m going to go see if Kimball wants me to do anything,” Wash calls over his shoulder.

“You do that!”

Fucking orange colored assholes. Think they know everything.

*

Each of the Red’s and Blue’s squaddies have auxiliary colors the same as their captain’s. He sees little flashes of aqua out of the corner of his eye everywhere. It makes him twitchy. It’s like seeing Tucker everywhere, but he’s not there at all.

*

“Please tell me I can do things,” Wash begs. “I actually cannot do this anymore.”

“What? Resting?” Lady Bones asks.

_“Vegetating.”_

“You are cleared for physical activity,” Lady Bones says. “But you are not cleared for busting your ass like some people on this base do.”

“What does that even mean.”

“It means,” Lady Doc says, jabbing an insistent finger at him, “That you can work out. Run some drills. But not every day is going to be leg day.”

“But I’m a space marine!”

“Recovering space marine,” Lady Doc corrects. “So physical activity, yes. Drilling 24/7, no. I know you’re not an idiot so I won’t spell out the difference for you. If you think I’ll yell at you for it, don’t do it. Oh, and by the way—“

She throws something at him, which he catches. It’s a pack of condoms.

“What?” he sputters. “I’m not—I mean.”

“Oh, I know you’re not,” Lady Bones says. “But I have hope for you, Agent Wash. And as your medical professional, I believe in being prepared.”

“I—wait what do you mean ‘you know’?”

“It’s amazing what you can pay Felix to find out,” Lady Bones says.

Wash growls and stomps out of medical.

*

“You are a fucking narc,” he snaps at Felix the next time he sees him.

“I’m a fucking merc,” Felix corrects easily. “Can you be more specific and less cryptic about what you’re mad at me for?”

“I just had a talk with the doctor.”

“Oh. Sorry?” Felix says. “But you two are kinda the hottest gossip around. I’m only reporting for the doc, though. And Kimball.”

“What.” Wash replays that sentence in his head. “We’re gossip?”

“The dude Captain Tucker always gets so intense about finally gets rescued, and you guys immediately start a screaming match with each other in which the words ‘soul mate’ are thrown around? Shit, everyone knows.”

“I can’t believe this,” Wash groans.

He thought his life had achieved its peak of ridiculous a long time ago, but somehow the bar keeps getting overshot.

“Dude, everybody likes a good love story. We’re all rooting for you, man.”

“We’re not talking about this,” Wash says. “Ever again. No, not even now. We were never talking about this.”

Wash closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Great. Now everyone knows he’s pining like a fucking chump and Tucker still won’t talk to him. How many times is he going to totally screw everything up?

“You know you’re doing that, right?” Felix asks, undertone.

“Doing what?”

“That,” Felix says, pointing.

Wash looks down. He’s got his left hand circled around his right wrist, thumb spread protectively over where Tucker’s name lies, under the armor.

“Just thought you should know your tells,” Felix says, sauntering away.

After that, they’re kind of friends.

*

He sees Tucker with the others. He sees Tucker with loads of people. It’s just that every time Wash starts to walk up, he clearly makes an excuse and walks away.

*

He keeps an eye on Grif and Simmons, and sure enough there’s something different there. They still bicker all the fucking time, still throw around “Fatass” and “Nerd” like candy at a parade. But they also orbit each other a lot more closely than before, easily moving in and out of each other’s space.

“What the hell happened there?” Wash asks, tilting his head at Grif and Simmons.

Grif’s reclined under a tree, hands behind his head. Wash squints. Is that smoke coming out of his helmet? Simmons is sitting crosslegged next to him, chattering excitedly at and pointing at something he’s got on a tablet. Grif nods every once in a while.

“Dunno. Wasn’t really paying attention to that one,” Felix admits. The knife spins up and down. “From what I hear, Simmons girls’—they call themselves the Dick Squad, in case you didn’t hear— are really protective of their captain. Apparently they went on this big mission to get him laid. And then a couple of them noticed the way Grif…really was being bad at covering his mancrush on Simmons. Things got a little…”

“Crazy?” Wash asks.

“Loud,” Felix corrects, “after that. Although crazy works too. They cooked up a bunch of schemes to hook them up,” Felix says. “They were really determined. It’s okay, though. They didn’t damage anything permanently, and most of its been fixed already anyway.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wash says. “That’s hilarious.”

“Yeah, it’s even more ridiculous than your situation,” Felix says.

Wash throws an apple at him. Felix blocks it with his knife, then spears it. He takes an exaggerated bite.

“Okay, look,” Wash says. “What’s it going to take to let me borrow some of those for knifework practice?”

Felix grins.

*

Fifteen minutes later they’re squaring off in training field B. They’ve each got a pair of training blades (because if Kimball catches them training with sharps they would fucking die) dipped in some bioluminescent paint. The logic being, wherever they manage to hit each other will show up later.

“Okay, here’s the rules,” Felix says. “They guy who manages to kill the other one the most, wins.”

“Most lethal shots wins, got it,” Wash says. He flips the blade, testing its weight. There won’t be any big throws in this, they’re not going to stab each other, especially not with training blades. He’s a little rusty, but he can feel his muscles singing with remembered movement. “You win, and I’ll teach you a few tricks only someone from the Freelancer program would know with that shield of yours. _I_ win, and I get half the cut of whatever Kimball and the good doctor are paying you for your reporting services.”

“Deal,” Felix says.

Then he charges.

*

They draw a crowd. To Wash’s utter surprise, over half of them are cheering for him. Felix manages a slice up from his ribs to his armpit and Wash curses.

“Ha! Point for me,” Felix laughs.

“What?” Wash protests, circling left. “No way that would have killed me.”

“Dude, from what I hear, nothing manages to kill you. We’re going off a normal person benchmark, not yours, you fucking cockroach.”

“That’s Agent Cockroach to you, pal.”

Wash gets him back with a couple slashes across the kidneys and even manages a collarbone swipe. Felix rallies, though, switching hands mid-spin. They parry, slash and block each other in swipes almost too quick to follow. Wash grins behind his helmet. It’s been years since he got in a fight like this, a spar where he was being pushed to his limits without absolutely everything else in the world falling apart at the exact same time. He throws in a few moves Connie taught him, just for nostalgia’s sake.

“ _What the fuck is he doing?_ ” He hears Tucker screech.

He half-turns his head to see the aqua soldier standing at the edge of the circle, and it’s a half turn, a half-second too much. Felix swipes one of his legs out from under him but he catches himself on one knee, arm raised to shield his throat but Felix isn’t going for his throat. Felix fakes him out, switches hands again, spins and the knife is descending, he’s not going to catch up in time, heading straight for the faceplate of his helmet and—

Something hits him from the side and everything spins in a whirl of bioluminescence, green and trails of glowing light.

When he manages to get his bearings, he’s on the ground. Like really on the ground, sprawled on his back. He groans and opens his eyes, looking for whatever it was that hit him. Tucker’s crouched protectively in front of him, hand inches from the hilt of his sword. Wash forgets to breathe.

“Dude,” Felix says, putting his hands up, placating, from ten feet away. “It’s just a spar.”

Tucker doesn’t say anything. He head moves the barest amount, glancing toward Wash. Then he straightens and takes a step away. Wash sits up, staring. Everybody’s staring. No one dares make a sound.

“Get the fuck out,” Tucker orders. The assembled soldiers practically flee, leaving Tucker and Wash alone on the field. Wash gets to his feet, his joints aching a bit from the rough tumble.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Tucker says. “Instinct. I’m a badass now, if you were paying attention.”

“Yeah, I been paying attention,” Wash replies, annoyed. “I been paying attention to the fact you haven’t said two words to me since I woke up. Then you tackle me to save me from a training blade?”

“Yeah, well you haven’t exactly been going out of your way to have a chat with me either, Wash.”

“I thought you didn’t want to see me,” Wash protests.

“I don’t!” Tucker snaps. He shakes his head. “I mean…fuck.”

“Can you just make up you fucking mind?” Wash says. “Because I’m getting seasick here from all you’re back and forth over what you’re actually angry with me about.”

“You make up your mind! First, you don’t give enough shits to clue me in to my own fucking cosmic fate, then you give so many shits you just gotta do dumbass shit to save my life. You can’t have it both ways, Wash.”

“If you think I’m going to apologize for trying to save you, you’re gonna be waiting a hell of a long time—“

“You didn’t tell me! You could have _died_ and then I never would have known!”

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Wash says.

“Well, don’t do that, you fuck it up!” Tucker retorts. “Why don’t you ask yourself why the right thing always ends with you keeping shit from me, or leaving me behind?”

“That wasn’t what I was doing—“

“YES, IT FUCKING WAS!” Tucker screams. “You knew and you didn’t tell me, you didn’t even try to find out for sure, you left me in the dark—“

“What would you have done?” Wash challenges. “If you were the one who knew. You honestly expect me to believe you wouldn’t hightail it in the opposite direction?”

“I’da said, ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’”

Wash gapes.

“Are you fucking with me right now?” Wash asks, disbelieving. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

Tucker outright growls, reaches up and rips his helmet off. His eyes are livid.

“Do I fucking look like I’m kidding?”

Wash searches his face. There’s nothing but certainty and anger there.

“How long did you know?” Tucker demands.

“What?”

“How long did you know I was the Lavernius on you hand,” Tucker repeats.

“I didn’t know you had my name on your wrist,” Wash says guiltily. “But…I got a glimpse of yellow once. When I was yelling at you to get up in the morning.”

“More specific.”

"Shortly after…the ship crashed.”

“So, you literally knew for fucking months,” Tucker says. “Simmons had time to grow two headed vegetables in that time. And you couldn’t figure out how to open your fucking mouth.”

“Tucker—“

“Naw, I can’t believe this, man. This is fucked up,” Tucker paces like a cornered lion, runs a hand through his dreads.”Did it ever fucking occur to you, that the reason you’ve been alone so long is you is because you bring it on yourself?”

Those words hurt more than a punch in the gut. Wash knows. He’s been shot in the gut, and he’d choose that again over this.

“What did you just say?” he asks, voice sounding far away.

“You heard me. You shut people out.”

Tucker shoves his helmet on his head and stalks off the training field. Wash stares after him.

Eventually Wash walks back to his bunk, like walking through water. He closes the door quietly behind him.

He looks at himself in the mirror. Steel and yellow. Steel and yellow has meant him, has meant Agent Washington, _Wash_ for so long. He put these colors back on to remember that all he had to be was who he is. He is steel and yellow to so many people.

It’s hard not to associate people with their armor, in his line of work. He spends his days insulated. Sure, he takes off his helmet occasionally, sometimes even takes his armor off to sleep (didn’t for years) now. He runs a finger along the hard titanium alloy of this shell, this protective barrier around him. Nothing can reach him, in here, it isn’t designed to.

All of the sudden he can’t stand it, curls fingers around the back of his helmet and tears it off. His hands skitter over the clasps and clamps, rip down the magzips, breaking the seals and ripping the sections off his body as quickly as he can. His gloves hit the wall. His chest piece falls to the floor, followed by a shoulder guard. The knee cover flies and clatters across his desk but he can’t bring himself to care about the noise, too focused on getting it off, getting all that weight off of him.

He stands in the middle of his bunk, armor pieces scattered around him. He doesn’t look in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see his face.

He breathes. He breathes. He breathes. He keeps breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a miracle that when he goes looking the next day, he finds Tucker alone, in the armory. He’s cleaning his magnum, his back to the door.

“I need to tell you something.”

Tucker sends a dismissive look at him from over his shoulder, but doesn’t turn around. He goes back to taking apart his magnum. His helmet rests next to it on the table, his dreads pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Wash thinks this must be what having a heart attack feels like. He feels like his rib cage is caving in, imploding like a black hole, every heart beat shocking him like the beat of an EKG.

“Thank you.”

That gets Tucker’s attention. He puts the gun down carefully, the click on the table loud in the room. He turns and leans back against the table, arms crossed, clearly waiting for Wash to continue.

“During Project Freelancer….” Wash starts, but can’t finish. He takes a deep breath, tries again. “When Project Freelancer went down, it literally went down in flames. I thought we were a family but…”

He can’t possibly look at Tucker while he says this. He can’t. He decides to look at Tucker’s boots instead.

“Not everyone knew everything what was going on. Nobody listened. And when it was over, everyone grabbed what and who they could and ran….None of them came back for me. They knew where I was, they knew what the project were doing and…They didn’t even try. Years. I mean…”

He trails off, the words getting stuck in his throat.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to do anything with—with this,” he says quickly, shaking his wrist for emphasis. “I wasn’t expecting anything. I just wanted to say—“

He closes his eyes.

“So, anyway. Thanks.”

He can feel Tucker’s eyes boring into him but he can’t look up. He can’t look at him. He can’t be in this room anymore. He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he _can’t_ —

“Wash—“

He registers the sunlight before he registers he’s moved. The door shuts behind him and he blinks. Everything’s too bright. Too bright. He stumbles around the corner to the alley between buildings and barely gets his helmet off before he throws up.

*

The next day, Tucker sits next to him while he’s in the mess. Wash is so shocked, he can’t think to say anything. Tucker’s got the biggest scowl on his face, and he sits down aggressively like the bench is going to buck him off, but he doesn’t say hi. He shoots a disdainful look at Wash’s plate.

“Dude, do you eat anything but vegetables?” He asks scornfully.

Wash blinks.

“There’s a burger right here,” he says.

“Yeah, but it’s alone in a sea of broccoli and shit.”

Wash doesn’t know how to respond to that. A spark of annoyance flares because the first time Tucker willingly talks to him and it’s about this?

“You’re not eating enough,” Tucker snaps. “I’m going to go get you some fucking pie.”

Wash stares as Tucker jumps to his feet and then stalks over towards the cooks. Tucker returns with a slice of pie and plunks it down in front of him. He even got him a fork.

“Thanks?”

“You’re fucking welcome.”

They eat the rest of their meal in silence.

*

They don’t really avoid each other anymore. They say words to each other now. But they don’t really talk. It’s better. Wash convinces himself of that. This is enough.

Sometimes, when they’re in each other’s spaces (like when Caboose insists on a meeting of the buddy club, or when any of the Blood Gulch guys managed to get some time to just sit around and chat) he’ll see Tucker go really still and quiet, like he’s trying really hard to stop himself from doing something, or maybe trying to find the nerve.

*

"Hey, Wash," Tucker says. "Uh…Good job today. With the stuff. You know what I mean."

Wash looks at him like he grew a second head— armor, helmet and all.

"…Thanks?" Wash asks.

"Jesus Christ," Tucker says, stomping away.

*

Wash is getting ready for bed when there’s a knock. He briefly considers whether he should pick up the magnum stashed near the door, but forgoes it.

It’s a good thing, because when he opens the door, it’s Tucker.

He’s in civies, t-shirt and sweatpants, and he looks around a little guiltily before making eye contact with Wash.

“Um. We should talk. Can I come in?” he asks. Wash wordlessly steps aside. He’s not doing such a great job of forming thoughts at the moment. He closes the door after him.

They look at each other. For too long a minute, there is complete silence.

“I’m not mad at you anymore,” Tucker says. “Just in case you were wondering.”

“Oh. Good. That’s good.”

“You should have told me,” Tucker says, but his tone is without accusation, without heat. Wash sighs, runs a hand through his hair to keep it from going to his wrist.

“I know,” he says. “I know that now.”

Tucker nods, shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Well,” he says, his tone trying for light and mostly missing the mark, “Guess we both really fucked up.”

Wash laughs, despite himself.

“We?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah?” Tucker replies. “Pretty sure you noticed, dude. I’ve been pretty much a huge asshat to you since you got back.”

“Well, yeah,” Wash agrees. “That goes without saying.”

“Shut up,” Tucker grouches, but his tone’s light. Wash averts his eyes, focuses on keeping his heart rate low. There’s nothing to worry about. They’re good. They’re not mad at each other. They’re not even fighting right now.

Tucker sighs and holds out his wrist.

“C’mere, dude. We might as well be sure, first.”

Wash hesitates for a moment, but reluctantly steps forward.

Wash looks at their wrists next to each other. The yellow’s the same shade. It stands out more boldly next to Tucker’s dark skin as opposed to his own, but it’s clearly the same color. The same bold, highlighter yellow. Wash looks at the word “David” inscribed on Tucker’s skin and wonders if it means anything that he doesn’t feel like that guy anymore.

“Well, there it is,” he says. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Nope,” Tucker says, dropping his arm back to his side. “Don’t think I want to, to be honest.”

Wash sends him a wary look.

“Really?”

Tucker sighs. He spins Wash’s desk chair in hand and sits down, spine slumping back, elbows resting on his knees. He takes a deep breath.

“I was cool with having a thing for you when my name wasn’t written on your wrist,” Tucker says. “I mean, I was getting used to the idea.”

Wash blinks.

“You..liked…me before? Before you knew?” Wash asks.

“Dude, we’re not in fucking grade school. And yeah, I did, before. I—I missed you different than I missed Church. It wasn’t the same.”

Wash blinks again.

“Well…I’m glad I’m different from Church,” Wash tries to joke.

“Yeah, all that bitch ever did was whine and eat all the food. I mean, I miss my friend, but he’s also a raging douchnozzle,” Tucker says. “You, that hurt, man. Missing you. I started missing stuff I never realized I was paying attention to. I figured it out pretty quick, after that.”

Wash really wants to ask what it is that he missed, what was it that made him realize. The question’s burning on his tongue, but looking at Tucker, the uneasy way he’s hunching in to himself, hands in his hair, elbows on his knees, he’s not sure either of them are in any state to hear it right now.

“I….me too,” Wash says. “I did too. Before I knew, before I really knew. It’s probably why I didn’t want to tell you. Once I knew your name. I mean—”

Tucker looks up at him, and god, this is embarrassing. He meant it back when he said he wasn’t good at the emotions thing.

“—I mean, I’m a paranoid, ex-special ops guy whose used to being betrayed on a daily basis,” Wash says sardonically. “I’m not exactly at the top of anyone’s list.”

“Dude, so what?” Tucker says. “My two closest friends are an asshole who’s too wrapped up in his own bullshit to talk to me anymore, and an idiot who sometimes puts mustard in my sheets. Standards aren’t high, dude.”

“Wow,” Wash says. “I suddenly feel all better.”

“Well, you should,” Tucker fires back. “It’s about fucking time you started.”

Wash doesn’t even know where to begin with that statement. He’s self-aware enough to realize that they’re starting to fight again (how do they always end up fighting) and he flails for something to say, but he can only think of one thing that tends to always work for him.

“I’m sorry.”

Tucker sighs and runs a hand through his dreads. Then he stands, like he’s finally made a decision.

“Sorry for having a thing for me, or sorry for not telling me?” he asks, but his tone has changed in some tiny way Wash can’t name.

“What?” he asks.

“Did you really check out my ass when making me run drills?” Tucker asks.

Wash blushes. Despite the fact that he’s a grown-ass man and he shouldn’t be able to do that anymore.

“I—

“Haaaa, knew you wanted a piece of this,” Tucker grins like a shark.

“No I don’t,” Wash replies on automatic, “Wait, yes I do, I mean—“

“Was all that stuff about breaking me a come on too?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Wash protests.

“Cause that’s the kind of promise you can’t wimp out on, you gotta deliver that shit.”

“Uhhh,” is all Wash’s brain supplies. He’s a little confused. And there’s a tiny section of his hind brain that’s jumping up and down and trying to point something out to him, but the rest of his brain has whiplash because it’s having a bit of trouble keeping up with whether they’re fighting or not.

“I’ve never kissed a dude before,” Tucker says, walking forward.

“Why are you telling me tha—“

Tucker kisses him. He keeps kissing him. He backs him against the wall and he’s got his hands in his hair and he’s _still_ kissing him.

Washington’s brain catches up with what his hindbrain was trying to tell him, and enthusiastically jumps aboard this line of thought. Tucker’s an enthusiastic kisser, all sliding lips, quick nips and playful tongue. Wash catches Tucker’s hips in his palms and pulls him closer, tries to communicate how on board he is with this plan with his mouth and the incline of his body into his.

Tucker’s hands slide up under his shirt, blunt nails, calluses and wide palms seemingly determined to map every inch of skin. The heat coming off him everywhere they’re touching is something he wants to burn in. Tucker quickly divests him of his shirt and goes back to sucking on his tongue, dragging his palms down the muscles of his back.

“I’m so glad we’re not in armor,” Wash says between kisses.

“Dude, you don’t show up to anywhere you hope to get fucked in armor,” Tucker replies.

Wash grabs at the hem of Tucker’s shirt, pulling it up. He runs into complications when Tucker absolutely refuses to let go of Wash’s mouth, and it gets stuck around his shoulders. He laughs into Wash’s mouth before finally obliging and lifting his arms.

“Was complaining about your sensitive nipples you flirting with me?” Wash asks. He finally manages to get Tucker’s shirt off and throws it somewhere Not Here.

“Eh, probably.” Tucker says. “Sometimes my mouth knows things before the rest of me does.”

Wash can’t help a groan as that tiny hindbrain portion of his brain from earlier takes the implications of that and flies into the sun.

“God, I hope you mean that in the way I’m thinking it,”

“Shit, I’m thinking it in pretty much every way,” Tucker says. “So, yeah, probably am.”

He starts making good on that promise immediately, kissing down Wash’s jaw to his neck, and yeah, that’s good, especially when Tucker starts sucking at that spot above his collarbone that’s always been sensitive, how did he find that already, but Wash had a thought, it was a good thought, what was it—

Wash lets go of Tucker’s hips (regretfully) and brings a hand up to his mouth, licking his thumb. Then he rubs the pad of his thumb in a calculated slide over one of Tucker’s nipples.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Tucker groans into his neck. “You can take a hint, huh?”

Wash rubs his thumb in a firm circle in reply and Tucker actually shakes a little bit.

Tucker pants against his neck, hand digging into his hip, and the hot air on the sensitized mark he just left is an extra spark of sensation in everything Wash is feeling right now. Tucker lifts his head from where it’s been leaning against his neck and kisses Wash again, but he’s distracted. He’s so distracted by Wash’s ministrations, and Wash presses full advantage, taking control of the kiss.

Tucker rallies though, presses his thigh between Wash’s legs and Wash’s back arches almost of its own accord. He has no control over the way his hips helplessly grind forward. Tucker chuckles low in his ear.

“Thought you’d like that,” Tucker says. “When was the last time you got some, Wash? Last time you jerked off?”

“Tucker,” Wash growls. “Just—“

Tucker grabs him, hands cupping his face and shoves him back against the wall with his whole body, kissing him furiously the whole time. Wash goes pliant against him, goes loose and just takes it, the press and grind of Tucker’s body into his.

“You know, for a big guy, you sure like being thrown around a lot,” Tucker says against his mouth. Wash feels his whole face light up with embarrassment.

“That’s okay,” Tucker says. He hooks an ankle around his, twists and sends Wash sprawling onto the bed with a move Wash’s pretty sure he taught him in sparring. He lands on his back, breath pushed out of him and when he opens his eyes Tucker’s are boring into his, telegraphing his intentions and he fucking crawls up the bed to him. “I can work with that.”

*

“You think we can make this work?” Wash asks.

They’re curled together in his bunk sharing the afterglow, comfortably entwined. They may or may not later call it a cuddle. Tucker will probably call it a Pre-Round Two Hiatus.

“Dude. Too soon for existential angst and drama,” Tucker groans into his neck. “Wait fifteen minutes.”

Wash concedes that he has a point, using his arm around him to pull him just that much closer. Tucker headbutts him affectionately in protest, but doesn’t pull away, or move at all, really.

“But, yeah,” Tucker says. “I do.”

Wash smiles.

*

The next morning they’re drowsing lazily when there’s a knock at the door.

“Agent Washington?” a voice calls. “You were supposed to oversee the new tactical plans with Commander Kimball today? They’re all waiting?”

“Oh, shit,” Wash says, sitting upright. “Uh— Sorry! Overslept! I’ll be out in a minute!”

He jumps out of bed, and starts searching for the pieces of his armor. Then he takes a look at himself.

“You know what, make that ten minutes!” He yells.

“What is possibly going to take you ten minutes?” Tucker asks, reclining back in bed, completely nude, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Unless it’s me? You just have to put on your armor.”

“I can’t go out like this,” Wash says, gesturing at himself. “I’m probably covered in—“

“Dude, they’re not gonna smell it. You’ll be in armor.”

“Just—I’m going to go shower."

“That an invitation?” Tucker asks, swinging his legs off the bed.

“No,” Wash says, placing a hand on Tucker’s chest to stop him. Tucker’s grin falters. “If you come with me, I’m never going to get out there.”

“Fair point,” Tucker agrees, the grin back as he starts looking for his clothes. He finds his pants and puts them back on. “I got drills soon, anyway. Can’t let them think I’m gonna go easy on them just because I got laid. They’ll end up with some kinda complex and coming up with stupid schemes like Grif and Simmons’s squads.”

“Someone seriously needs to tell me that story sometime,” Wash replies. He puts on a pair of sweatpants on for modesty’s sake when Tucker opens the door to leave, drapes his towel over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Tucker says, shirt in his hands. “C’mere.”

The kiss isn’t fervent. It isn’t heated. It isn’t hungry. And somehow it’s even better, sends a bloom of something warm twisting through Wash’s stomach.

“I’ll see you later,” Tucker says, putting the shirt back on.

“Bye,” Wash says.

He pauses to watch Tucker leave (it’s a nice view, okay?) but to his bewilderment, he doesn’t. Tucker crouches and pulls the door open about a half an inch, just enough to see outside. Then he closes it soundlessly.

“Shit,” Tucker says. “They’re out there.”

“Who?” Wash asks, paranoia rising.

“Half the base, that’s who!” Tucker says. “Felix. Caboose. Donut. And couple dozen passerby and random loiterers. Fuck, I hate gossip!”

“Do you think they know?” Wash asks.

“Dude, we’re not subtle. Fuck this shit, they want a show, I’ll give ‘em a show.”

He kisses Wash again, a quick peck, and then strides out the door.

The catcalls start even before the door is closed.

“THIS AIN’T NO WALK OF SHAME!” He hears Tucker yell. “THIS IS A WALK OF GOT LAID, BITCHES. L-A-I-D. GO DO SOME FUCKING PULL UPS OR SOME SHIT, MY SEXY BLACK ASS IS _TAKEN_!”

Wash leans his head back against the door. This time he’s aware when his left hand comes up, circles around his right wrist.

Wash starts to laugh.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!  
> I've got a tumblr if you wanna come freak out about rvb12 with me Queseraawesome.tumblr.com


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